by David Marcum
“We shall do nothing whatsoever, I assure you,” Holmes murmured, and opened the door and then, in an instant, threw himself to one side, pulling me to the ground with him. Before I could protest, the reason for his action became clear, as the swinging door revealed a half dozen armed police officers, all pointing their weapons directly at the Boer. For a moment I thought he would try to shoot his way free, but discretion immediately overcame any such consideration, and he lowered his gun and allowed it to drop to the street. Policemen swarmed over him and he was quickly led away in handcuffs.
Holmes and I rose and dusted ourselves down as Inspector Lestrade approached.
“Can we offer you tea, Inspector?” Holmes asked politely, and I was finally able to laugh.
Settled in comfortable chairs, with something stronger than tea in our hands, Holmes explained everything which had occurred in the past few hours.
“I really have no excuse for my failure to realise what had happened for so long,” he began. “It was not until I read the announcement in The Times that the vital cog was inserted into the machinery of my thinking, and every other thing fell into place. You see, though I was never convinced that Mr. Edwards had committed self-murder, I allowed myself to be distracted by the mention of Johannesburg - and the fact that the victim worked on the very secret weapons Scotland Yard feared compromised merely made that distraction stronger.
“It was only when I saw the name of the young lady in the newspaper that I realised my mistake - the note found on Mr. Edwards was not intended for delivery to Johannesburg but to Johanna Baumgartner. The jagged tearing of the note left us only Johann and a closing g if you recall. Natural to assume the name of a city in a country already under discussion, but I should have considered the alternative, especially given the amorous - if martially expressed - nature of the poem underneath. I believe that Mr. Edwards and Miss Baumgartner met while Edwards was working in Germany on behalf of Chapmans, and fell in love. I cannot say who discovered this unwelcome news first, but whoever it was, whether in Germany or England, it cannot have been welcome news, with a financially lucrative merger in the offing, to be cemented by a similar merger of the families of two industrial giants.”
Lestrade has not moved a muscle while Holmes spoke, so intent was he, but now he asked a question which had evidently been playing on his mind. “It is your contention, Mr. Holmes, that one or both of these industrial giants, as you term them, then decided that murder was the most effective way to keep the merger progressing smoothly?”
“Both, I should say, Inspector,” replied Holmes smoothly. “It is too much of a stretch to believe that a German industrialist had instant access to assassins in London, but at the same time, what need had any of the English group to ensure that Edwards died nameless and unknown? A simple ‘accident’ in the lab could far more easily have disposed of an unwanted suitor, but Baumgartner, I suspect, wished his daughter to believe herself abandoned by the man she loved, and so more pliable and willing to marry the man her father had chosen for her.”
He held out a hand to the rat-faced detective. “If Inspector Lestrade has with him the reply to the second telegraph I sent earlier today - the first being to Scotland Yard of course - then we should be able to confirm my suspicions.”
Lestrade fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a telegraph, which he passed to Holmes, who read it quickly and with but a single nod of appreciation. “Read for yourselves, gentlemen. My telegraph was short and to the point, alerting Miss Baumgartner to the terrible news that her fiancé, Mr. William Edwards, had been found, dead of poison, in a London street. Her more wordy reply confirms both that she once hoped to be his wife, and that she had been told by her father that he had proven unfaithful and had fled in the middle of the night. If that is not enough to begin investigations into the two companies and you require further evidence, Inspector, I suggest you test the body for the presence of Hydrogen Sulfide. As Doctor Watson will confirm, in a concentrated dose it kills in moments and leaves no trace bar an unpleasant odour. And ironically that odour was removed by Mr. Edwards’ genius. One other thing the chemical does: its presence causes metals to become discoloured. It was for this reason that all money was removed from Edwards’ body, but I believe the killers missed the studs which are found on a gentleman’s trousers for the fastening of suspenders. You would do well therefore to examine such items more closely.”
“So the African agent was nothing to do with the death of Edwards?” I asked in the silence which followed Holmes’s speech.
“None, Watson. The purest coincidence, but a happy one, nonetheless.”
“Happy - ?”
“The Inspector will, I think, agree with me that the most likely fate for our recent kidnapper is to be swapped with an agent of our own, currently a prisoner of the Boers. In such an event, imagine the furore on the African veldt when he reports that the English have flying machines, ready to rain death and destruction from the sky!”
Holmes’s laughter as he concluded was so loud that Mrs. Hudson came upstairs to make certain everyone was unharmed, but that served only to make him laugh all the louder.
After a moment, Lestrade and I joined in.
A Mistress - Missing
by Lyn McConchie
It had been an irritating month. It had done nothing but drizzle, and in London the wet streets, the over-flowing gutters, and the angry shouts of drivers had been a constant theme. Inside, Holmes had been bored and made no bones about it. He had concluded an unpleasant case only the previous month, and was officially resting, save that resting - at least to his mind - is not Holmes’s usual condition.
“Nothing in the newspaper again, Watson.”
His lack of interesting cases had translated into boredom for him, but for me it had added to the irritations of remaining inside because of the wet weather, as he paced, smoked, and commented sourly each morning on the mundane and dreary round of ordinary criminal activity. I scanned the paper hastily.
“What about ‘Strange Events in Pimlico’?” I offered. “A woman left her home in the early hours wearing only a nightgown and slippers. Fears are held for her safety.”
Holmes snorted. “Her husband is well aware that she has fled to her lover.”
“How can you possibly know that?” I asked in surprise.
“Because of his equivocations. See, he is reported as claiming that she took nothing, he knows of no reason for her disappearance, and is desperate for her return. But look at this excellent sketch of him, Watson.”
I looked and belatedly realised his point. “Oh, you mean that he is well dressed?”
“Hair brushed back, a clean shirt, neat suit and tie, polished shoes. The artist did not observe, but he drew what he saw. No husband fearing the worst would appear so calm. His clothes would convey the disorder of his mental state. No, his wife fled and he knows to whom she has gone.”
I rustled the pages again. “Well, what about...”
“It’s no use, Watson. I have already read anything you may offer and I have no interest in any of it.” He sat back, his eyes heavy-lidded, and his face set in a slight scowl. “More and more commonplace cases abound, and - what is that?” The ‘that’ to which he referred was the front door slamming, thumps in the hall, and a howl. I walked across, opened the door, and a cat shot past me. Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway.
“Forgive me, I went to bring in the milk and it came past me. I’ll put it out directly.”
Holmes held up a hand. “Leave it, Mrs. Hudson. I presume it is drizzling again?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then let us not deny sanctuary to a fellow creature.”
That, I thought, was my old friend all over. For all that he could be severe with people, he had yet a soft spot for the young or helpless. I shut the door again, sat and poured myself another cup of tea, and waited. After sever
al minutes the cat came out, sat on the rug by the fire and stared at us. We stared back.
It was a solid animal of an odd shade of brown, wearing a light plaited leather collar. It was obviously a stray. It was rather dirty, and the wary look suggested knowledge of people who threw things at cats. I felt sorry for it, and, pouring milk into a saucer, I placed that near it on the rug. The cat walked over as one that is finally given its due, drank the milk, meowed at me and waited. I refilled the saucer and this time when it was finished it curled up by the fire and apparently slept.
I was amused. “Upon my soul, Holmes, if that isn’t like a cat. Walk in, treat the place as its own, demand to be fed, and take it all for granted. Typical London stray, it knows when it is onto a good thing”
“Ah, but this is no ordinary cat, Watson.” Holmes said quietly. “Nor a normal stray.”
I looked at the cat and saw nothing unusual that might lead him to that conclusion. However, I saw that his attention had been caught and rejoiced. If I could only involve him, engage his interest.
“It looks like an ordinary cat to me, Holmes,” I said, a little contentiously. “What’s so different about a stray that wanders in from the street?”
“Several things. It wears a collar.”
“Lost by some old lady then?”
“Consider its condition. The body is sleek, solid. It is in excellent health, and it can be seen that beneath the grimy outer layer, the fur is not harsh as it would be had the animal long gone without food.”
“Recently lost by an old lady?”
Holmes produced one of his occasional smiles. “No, no, my friend. There are other points here. The cat is used to being cared for. It came readily to you once you showed yourself friendly. Watch.” He spoke gently to the cat, which rose and strolled over to him. His fingers, rubbing under the jaw, produced purring, and eager thumps by the creature’s head against his hand.
“You see, Watson, how swiftly it casts off any superficial fear that I may harm it. This is a cat that has always been loved and cared for. The grime on its fur is no more than a few days old.” His hands were carefully removing the collar. He turned that and I glimpsed a small copper plaque. “Ah ha!”
“What does it say, Holmes?”
“Mandalay, a reward for return to Miss Emily Jackson, 14 South Street.”
“As I said,” I repeated. “Some old lady.” And more cunningly, “It is nothing, Holmes. The case of the stray cat?” I managed a sneer. “You complain of criminals who bring nothing new to your investigations. How far more humdrum is a lost cat? Why, I will bet that the owner is above fifty, a widow or old maid who adores cats, and if we return the animal to that address, she will gush over us, weep over the cat, and expect us to listen for hours to the virtues of her pet.”
Holmes rested his chin on one hand and considered the cat. “I think not. Let us take the cat and go there.”
“It will be a waste of your time, Holmes. Why, I shall lay down a crown right now that there is nothing exciting or even mildly interesting in all this.”
Holmes’s eyes gleamed at me. “Very well, Watson. As you know, I do not gamble, but if you insist, here is my crown. Let us leave them here on the table, and you yourself shall say which of us has won the money fairly upon our return.”
I allowed him to pick up the cat and followed them as we left the house. Unseen by my friend, I wore a very faint smile. Whatever the outcome of this, I could not lose. If there were a case of any interest, Holmes would be less bored for a while. If not, he would have at least had a day outside our rooms to cheer him, and I would be a crown better off. Holmes hailed a cab, and we were driven off in the direction of the suburb listed on the cat’s collar. It was no great distance, and half an hour later we halted outside a pleasant building that looked to be one of those that let out self-contained suites, rather than single rooms with shared amenities.
I paid off the cab while Holmes knocked at the main door, which was opened by a flustered woman of matronly appearance, plump build, and a quantity of frilly apron swathed about her. She gaped at the cat.
“Mandalay, you wicked creature! Oh, how happy I am you’re safe. Miss Emily would never have forgiven me.” And to us, “Where ever did you find him? Come in, sirs, please come in.”
We passed over the threshold, the door was shut behind us, and Holmes released Mandalay. The cat darted along the corridor and cried at a polished door. The woman opened it for him and ushered us into what was clearly the cat’s usual accommodation, because he went at once to a padded wicker basket and curled up.
“Please, sirs, sit down.”
We sat once she had done so and Holmes took charge. “Your name?”
We found it to be Jane Knox, “No relation to the minister, sirs,” and that her husband had been a merchant. This had been his uncle’s family home, left to them on the uncle’s death twenty years gone. Her husband died soon after, and she had used what money she had to convert the huge rambling old house into five furnished, self-contained apartments, all let to respectable tenants on long-term leases. Miss Knox oversaw the cleaning, the cooking of an evening meal when or if required, and was in general something of a confidant and friend to all in the house.
“It worried me something awful, sirs. Miss Emily is reliable. She has lived here for five years now, and she comes in and goes out each day, and always at the same times. Should she know she is to be late, she always tells me, or leaves a note. And that cat, sirs - she adores Mandalay, she wouldn’t ever leave him like this. I didn’t know she hadn’t come home on the Monday night, not until I found Mandalay was out of food, sirs. I opened the door and he darted past me. Mr. Southby was coming in just then, and the front door being open, too, Mandalay went right outside, and wouldn’t come when I called. I tell you true, sirs, I was beside myself with worry. He’s been gone four days now, and oh, dear, oh dear, so has she!”
We asked questions and it transpired, putting together all we heard, that while Miss Emily had no real need to work, having a small private income sufficient to maintain her and Mandalay in comfort, she also did not believe in being idle. She had therefore taken employment at a typing bureau that catered in particular to writers of scientific works; she, having had an excellent education, was particularly esteemed, and often requested.
“She donates her wages to charity, sirs, good girl that she is. But she enjoys the work. She says it’s interesting and she learns so much. And all those old scientific gents think the world of her.”
Holmes elicited further details, and after another hour we left the cat content in his home again, and took a second cab to the typing bureau, where we received a similar welcome.
“There must have been some trouble,” stated the imposing figure that was the bureau’s owner. “I cannot conceive that Emily would have walked out on me or her work without some very strong reason. She is not of that sort.”
“Who was her Monday client?” Holmes asked.
“Professor Smithyson. He’s in his seventies, a fine old gentleman. He is writing a book on Sumerian Art. Emily finds references for him, and writes at his dictation the text that will accompany the art in his book. It will be his fourth book,” she added.
I looked at Holmes, There was no way in which I could see an elderly gentleman obsessed with the ancient city of Sumer as an abductor of young woman or a vile seducer. Yet, it was there she had last been, so far as her employer knew, and it was there we next repaired.
A man we thought must be the gentlemen himself opened the door. “Oh,” he eyed us sadly. “You’re not Emily.”
For once I wasn’t far behind Holmes in a deduction. “You hoped it was she? When did you see her last?”
“Monday. She left as usual at five and was to return the next morning at nine. She did not return, and I have not seen her since.” Professor Smithyson said succinctly
.
Holmes nodded. “She vanished that night. We are asked to look for her.”
“You have a client? Whom?”
I caught the glimmer of amusement in my friend’s face. “A dear friend of the lady’s, one who is deeply concerned for her safe return. He visited my friend and me, and we agreed to help.”
“That is wonderful, I had no idea she had anyone. But come in, come in. I am happy to tell you anything I can, to answer any questions you may have. Come in.”
We did so and asked our questions. Miss Emily had arrived at nine on the Monday. She had taken dictation for the text of chapter seven, and gone then to check on some aspects of a controversial theory of the professor’s. She had returned from the library at one, shared his lunch, and taken further dictation, after which they had discussed the placement of some of the art on the next several pages. She had intended to return to the library before she continued home.
Professor Smithyson smiled ruefully. “I have a theory, I believe that many of the temple friezes were made from templates. That the priests took metal plates, carved patterns into these, and used plant dyes and brushes to produce uniform friezes along temple walls. Look.” He waved several sheets of paper at us. “This temple was built over fourteen years, but the basic frieze decoration was considered complete within weeks. How else could that have been accomplished?” He jabbed a finger at the photos.
“Everywhere, along the lower walls, along the door frames, along the places where the upper areas of the walls meet the ceilings. It is unheard of. If I could but prove this was so, it would be a great discovery. We have no clear proof that until this time such a thing had even been thought of, let alone carried out. Miss Emily was almost as excited by the idea as I was. She promised to hurry back with any information she might discover.”